


there’s magic in all of this

by lookoutlovers



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Witchcraft, eliott is a pining disaster, lucas owns a florist shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23172196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookoutlovers/pseuds/lookoutlovers
Summary: lucas is a skilled practitioner in the craft of natural healing, amongst other magnificent things. eliott seems to have a reoccurring cold.(in which lucas and eliott are witches and there is a bit of romance in everything.)
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 72
Kudos: 231





	1. remedies, readings, etheric phenomena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse any inaccuracies in my witchcrafty knowledge I decided midway through research that actually this is my fic and therefore i make the rules. it's all just a bit of fun! i hope you all enjoy it 💫 
> 
> also posted on [my tumblr](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/post/612758476850167808/theres-magic-in-all-of-this-part-one-lucas)
> 
> title — body by sleeping at last

_Blue._ That’s the very first thing Lucas Lallemant sees the very first time Eliott Demaury walks into his shop.

 _Quiet and calm,_ his instinct tells him, _peaceful,_ generally. But no, no. It’s not that, not a pale blue, nor a deep blue. This blue is muddy — it’s distant, despondent, _dark._

Usually, detecting an aura is effortless, for Lucas. It’s as easy as anything you’ve spent your entire life trying to perfect would be — like a skater to ice; a fish to sea. But _this_ , this is different. Blue consumes him like a dream, hazy and ill-defined as though it wants to hide. _Deceitful_ , although, not maliciously so.

And it is fitting, Lucas thinks, how the essence of a boy enters the shop and his eyes don’t really leave the floor, how he paces the shelves but his movements are distracted, fingers sweeping over his bottom lip as he studies a display of peach coloured alstroemerias for a moment too long, before moving to brush his hand over a bouquet of blushing roses.

The aura that surrounds him is indefinite in its formation, yet clear in the way he simply just exists. In a way that reminds Lucas vaguely of his own mother — intense, _severe._ Lucas pushes those thoughts away, doesn’t like the direction they’re heading in, impairing and unasked.

His mother always has seemed to warn him of his wandering mind.

Outside, rain is relentless, it lashes off the glass doors. Lucas, after a few minutes of observing from afar, approaches attentively. “Hi,” he calls lightly, and then, “do you need some help?” The sound of Lucas’ voice, despite how gentle it had been, still seems to startle him. His eyes, they widen, silvery grey-blue like the moon.

“Uh—” he clears his throat, his voice is hoarse, harsh like grit. “Yeah — I, uh. I have a cold, I heard you do, uh, that you do natural remedies, or something?”

“ _Ah_.” Lucas nods knowingly, tilts his chin upwards, asks, “who sent you?” Few know about his trade, you see, from the outside this is simply a florist shop yet if you delve in deeper there’s more. Shrouded in plain sight within the magical folds of Paris, arcane and obscure, is _Fleuristes de Lallemant,_ a place of natural healing, a hidden gem built entirely from nothing by his mother, a natural born witch. As a witch living in a modern world, it is simply a necessity to be wary of the people you share your powers with — if somebody comes in search of Lucas’ talents it’s because they either know of him, _they are one of him,_ or they have a vendetta against his kind. There is a prerequisite for being wary of these things.

Although, Lucas can usually sense it in their aura, anyway, and this boy is magical.

Still standing there with blue caging his limbs, nebulous and esoteric, the boy runs a hand through his hair. “My mother,” he provides, ”she’s a regular of yours — Esmée. She sent me to collect her usual.” He gestures to himself vaguely, huffing. “And something for this cold.” 

Lucas thinks, oh, and then, _oh._ Because, see, before, Eliott had been there, inspecting Lucas’ flowers as though preparing himself for something, and Lucas hadn’t really thought much of it. But now he thinks of _my mother_ and _Esmée,_ and, and — _you’re Eliott._

Eliott, the son Esmée rhapsodizes about every time she comes in to buy her things. She’s one of Lucas’ most delightful customers, known for her expertise in tarot readings; always smiling, always leaving a healthy tip, always saying how amazingly Lucas would get on with her son — who Lucas has never met before, until now.

“Ah, yes,” Lucas hums, his instinct remains unflawed — _he’s a witch._ “Follow me, then.”

The floorboards creak as Lucas leads Eliott towards the counter. It’s raining, still, droplets producing a pattering sound against the pavements outside. Lucas’ uni work is strewn across the countertop, pieces of last minute assignments chipped at between lulls of customers. Eliott follows, stopping at one side while Lucas goes around to the other. He moves methodologically as he gathers Esmée’s usual order, knowing now by heart the remedies she tends to request.

 _Dittany,_ he finds first. An antibacterial for the skin and the intestines, loose to steep in boiling water for tea. _Elderberry syrup,_ next, for boosting the immune system and controlling nasty allergy symptoms. Sometimes, _lemon balm,_ as a tea or enough to fill a hot bath. To calm anxiety, encourage restful sleep; for improving mood and mental clarity.

Carefully, Lucas wraps the goods with crisp brown paper, then ties them with string to keep them together.

“These are for your mother.” He slides the parcel over the counter. “And for you—” it comes to Lucas quickly, he’s been doing this for years, see, studying the art of natural healing. His mother was the first to introduce it to him. Growing up, Lucas remembers the tincture jars that used to take up all of the room in their kitchen, the jars that would parade the windowsills of their apartment, herbal oils soaking up the sunlight, multitudes of herbs growing from pots and hanging from the ceiling. He remembers books of recipes and spells scattered throughout every room of their living space, some pages loose as though ripped from a spine and highlighted to denote their significance to her. The ones she adored most taped messily to the wall, ideas and thoughts jotted into a brown leather embellished notebook that now sits folded into the clothes of Lucas’ bedroom dresser.

“ _Mullein,”_ Lucas provides, “the clear quartz of herbal healing. It works best for respiratory relief, you know — coughs, bronchitis, asthma, pneumonia,” he lists off, ”it’s also good for ear aches, fever, sore throats and migraines. It should do the trick. Just steep it in some boiling water and drink before bed, it’s good that way.”

Eliott nods, accepting the little parcel of herbs Lucas hands to him over the wooden countertop, before exchanging over a few crumpled notes. There’s a ring on almost every one of his fingers, they catch onto the light — shiny, silver, _striking_.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling softly, “just keep what’s left over.” It’s pretty, his smile, Lucas gets a little lost in it.

There’s a few moments where nothing else is said, maybe because there is nothing to say, maybe because there’s too much to say. Slowly, Eliott turns to leave.

“Wait!” Lucas calls out, doesn’t even wait to see if Eliott does before he’s ducking behind the counter. _Vervain extract,_ is what he grabs, for anxiety and sleeplessness, pain relief, to ease tense muscles and promote an overall sense of wellbeing.

Lucas hands him the vervain, wants to say, _for the blue_ , but doesn’t, it’s not his place. Only instead, “here, for you,” and when Eliott begins to stutter about not having enough money on him, “don’t worry about it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Eliott breathes.

“It’s Vervain extract, it smells nice, so you can add it to a hot bath,” Lucas tells him. “But it might cause some mild nausea, just be careful.”

Nodding again, Eliott huffs, “So I’m drinking lots of tea and having plenty of hot baths for the next while, then.”

“Exactly.” Lucas grins, toothy and a little flustered because the way Eliott’s eyes shine makes him feel breathless.

The blue, when Eliott finally turns and leaves, lightens — _peaceful._

*

Later, Yann asks how work was.

It’s not an uncommon question, but Lucas’ answer is always the same. He shrugs his jacket off, slumping into the worn cushions of the sofa they snagged off some random yard sale when they first moved in. Sighing, he says, “it was—“ there’s a pause, deep and pensive. Lucas thinks about Eliott, about eerie shades of blue and grey, of stone eyes. He thinks about timid smiles and slender fingers and those silver rings, how _distracting_. “—different,” he settles on. “It was different.”

Yann passes him a controller. There’s a game of Fifa beginning on the television. “Different how?” 

Shoulders shrug, lips purse. “I don’t know,” Lucas answers honestly. He gets new customers all the time, it shouldn’t mean anything. “I don’t know.”

The topic is left alone, after that. Lucas is thankful, mostly. Yann then kicks his ass at three consecutive games of Fifa, but only because Lucas lets him.

*

Two days later, Eliott returns to Lucas’ shop. 

This time when he enters there’s an orange hue surrounding him, a little yellow when Lucas focuses closely. Orange symbolises health, usually. But combined with the yellow Lucas sees creativity, intelligence, _a perfectionist_.

Happiness, too, Lucas is glad to see. He notices the stark contrast in the way Eliott enters this time compared to the previous. How he struts straight over to the counter where Lucas is sitting with a pen cap hanging from his mouth, textbook open but not necessarily being attended to. How he stands there with a small expectant smile on his face. He’s carrying a black folder and there’s a backpack thrown over one of his shoulders, a smudge of grey by his left eyebrow.

“Hello,” he says.

Lucas, a little dumbstruck, responds with, “Hi.” Forgets momentarily about the cap dangling from his mouth until it falls to the counter, the word falling with it, startling him from the stool he’s perched on. “Oh,” he laughs lightly, clumsily, _flustered_. “Sorry. Hi.”

Eliott giggles. And Lucas is surrounded by some of the most beautiful flowers to exist in all of Paris yet the simple sound of it seems to transcend all of that. Blinking, Lucas pushes the thought away, it’s silly, anyway.

“How can I help you?” Lucas asks. “Are you here for your mother’s things again?”

He isn’t necessarily surprised when Eliott shakes his head no, it’s only been a few days. Esmée usually buys enough to last a week or two at least. But it doesn’t answer the question about why Eliott is here, in Lucas’ shop at two in the afternoon on a Thursday looking like he’s just spent hours under the sun — bright and wonderful and glowing.

“I tried that stuff you gave me,” Eliott says, “the mullein and the vervain. It helped with my cold, a little, I was wondering if you maybe had some more.”

Lucas tilts his head, “It helped a little?” 

A light shade of rose sits high on Eliott’s cheeks, he glances away briefly. “Yeah, well. It was good, the tea, but I still feel a bit bunged up, you know.”

Humming, Lucas smirks, the orange is blazing. “Oh okay. I see.” He slides down from his stool. Eliott watches him, attempts to hide a smile that Lucas sees anyway and huffs out a light breath.

Lucas finds the mullein and vervain, wrapping them slower than necessary because maybe Eliott being here makes the flowers in Lucas’ shop bloom a little brighter than before. “What’s that?” Lucas asks as he works, nodding towards the black folder in Eliott’s hand.

“It’s my art,” Eliott explains, a prideful smile. “I study it.” 

The smudge of grey on his face makes a lot more sense now, Lucas thinks, the gentle roughness to his hands. 

“That’s so cool,” Lucas says, means it entirely, wants to know _more — everything_. “I study biology.”

Eliott hums, “I can see that.” He nods towards the books on the counter, at the page titled _DNA as a genetic information carrier,_ smirking at the lack of actual words written there and the random doodles of donuts over the page. “How’s that going for you?” It’s teasing, light.

“Shut up,” Lucas huffs out a laugh. He ties the string on the parcel of herbs into a tight bow. “I got distracted.”

Eliott only hums again. His smile is blinding. Lucas’ is probably just as embarrassingly wide as he hands the parcel over. Eliott pays, and with one last smile, a mumbled, “see you, Lucas,” he leaves. Lucas’ name sounds airy on his tongue, light and effortless. It takes Lucas back, causes something foreign to swirl inside his stomach.

“Bye, Eliott,” Lucas calls after him. It’s a bit hopeless, he’s already gone.

*  
  


There’s this spell — it goes like this.

A full moon, an empty apartment, one boy — _a witch_. 

The apartment is shrouded in all black, save for the single flame of candlelight. The wooden floor is hard where Lucas sits, legs crossed over the open book inscribed by his mother. Salt for purification. Rosemary for cleansing. Minutes, lots of them, they ebb by. _Focus_ , it is most necessary. Then, the words, spoken into the vortex of the moon, every full moon, eloquent and compelling.

“ _I call to thee, pure witches of fire and light._ ” Rosemary burns, its embers are potent. “ _Cleanse._ ” A ring of salt. “ _Purify._ ” Here, by the window, the light from the moon is fortifying, the thin layer of smoke that arises from the rosemary is captivating, hazy. “ _Cleanse this blackish aura of debris. From dark to light, start afresh, start new — wipe it clean.”_

The candle flickers out, all that’s left is darkness and the silver glow of a moon. 

Lucas doesn’t use them often, spells, but this one is different. It’s borne from necessity. And it’s strange — people often wonder why the magical boy who can see auras has no aura of his own, why when he laughs there is nothing and when he cries there is even less. A bit like a void, not necessarily dark but just empty.

But it goes like this. Auras make you vulnerable. Lucas catches an ambience and not only does he see a colour but he sees thoughts, he sees feelings and sometimes even dreams; ambitions and aspirations. From this some things are conclusive, others less so.

It’s a terrifying thought, to think that someone can take one look at you and know everything that you harbour inside — like your only one hiding place ceases to exist. So Lucas builds a wall from bricks and stones and he hides behind a spell that repeats once a month. That way he can keep control, he doesn’t spiral, doesn’t fall.

But now, something is changing and Lucas is feeling, and it’s becoming more difficult to stomp out the flames of it — incessant and niggling and _there._

Lucas feels but you wouldn’t know. He’s good at that, feeling — perhaps even too much, sometimes.

But he’s far better at hiding.

*

Lucas is arranging a display of casablanca lilies when the bell of the shop door chimes. 

The ring, rich and resonant, propels Lucas to turn and smile, half ready to greet his next customer of the day. It’s only natural when his eyes land on Eliott that his smile dilates.

“Hi, again,” Eliott says, stepping around the loose papers and packages strewn across the floor, the result of an early morning restock. He runs the tips of his fingers over his lips, tugs at them gently, a jittery sort of thing he tends to do, Lucas has noticed — a nervous habit perhaps. His features are hazy against the sun that seeps in through the glass doors of the shop, soft and diffused in a yellowish glow. Lucas finds that his vision blurs a bit when he stares for too long. He blinks and the fog dissipates. Eliott now stands closer, his features sharpen.

“Hey,” Lucas manages to get out, then, frowning, “your mother was in yesterday.” _What are you doing here,_ goes mostly unspoken but the question is still there, it frightens Eliott’s gaze away.

Shrugging slightly, Eliott takes another step closer, a small one as if stuck between hesitance and his own resolve.

“I know.”

There’s an odd silence. Lucas tilts his head, he sees more blue today, although this time it’s a lot more like Esmée’s blue. It’s a light blue, _truthful and peaceful_ , a bright blue, _spiritual intuitive._ Lucas thinks of Esmée and her tarots, wonders if she mentors Eliott in her practices like Lucas’ own mother had mentored him. If sustaining their mother’s crafts is another thing Eliott and him have in common. He finds himself quite distracted by it — the blue. It looks a lot like the sky does when it’s summer, calm and mesmerizing. Lucas, again, finds himself wanting to know more, catches himself wanting to know everything.

“As you can tell by my terrible cough—” Eliott clears his throat, it’s forced. Lucas smiles, amused. “—I’m still quite sick.”

“Well that’s not good,” Lucas plays along, entranced by the glint in Eliott’s eyes, the pink of his cheekbones. “We can’t have that.”

Eliott shakes his head, insistent. “We really can’t.”

They’re being a bit ridiculous, Lucas can’t find it within himself to care very much. He steps around the mess on the floor, navigates his way behind the counter until he finds the vervain and mullein. Eliott leans his elbows on the counter, slumps over in a way that’s distracting and aloof. It’s a lot to be faced with on a Saturday morning, Lucas hadn’t prepared himself for this, at all, really — for the way his hands fumble as he wraps Eliott’s herbs, _distracted_ , meek glances that catch and get stuck before shying away. _You’re too distracting_. Lucas doesn’t say it but he thinks it, is acutely aware that maybe Eliott can tell anyway, by the way he messes up his bow and has to start again.

“So how did you get into this?” Eliott asks, chin propped on his palm. “You know, working here, selling remedies.”

Conversational, is how it’s asked, casual. It shouldn’t shock Lucas as much as it does, and yet here he is, hands frozen, breath caught in his throat, something uneasy swirling in his stomach and in his chest. He pushes the feeling away, swallows down those strange thoughts because he can trust Eliott, he can, he has no reason not to. _He’s one of you, like you._

“My mother,” he explains, twirling the string between his fingers. Eliott’s eyes are soft at the edges, enrapt. Lucas shrugs. “She practically built this place from the ground, taught me about natural healing, about herbs and auras and things like that. When she fell ill I took it on for her. It’s the least I could do, really, after everything she’s given me.”

“Oh.” There’s a small crease between Eliott’s brows, a deep concern. “She’s unwell?”

Nodding, string slipping effortlessly through his fingers, and shortly, Lucas says, “Yeah. She has good days and bad days. We get through it together.”

Something akin to understanding flashes over Eliott’s face, although it’s transient and light, it’s there. “That’s good, then,” he smiles, warm and encouraging. Then, “You said auras, you can see them?” Lucas nods. Not many can, it’s a tricky thing to master, see, _too subjective_ , some say. But they haven’t met Lucas, they haven’t seen what he has seen, the beauty of the hues that emit from people like colour spectrums. How spectacular it is that we as humans can feel and emote so deeply that it literally seeps out of our pores.

“Yes.”

“What’s mine like, then?” He leans closer over the counter. It’s a curiosity Lucas would find irritable on anyone else, but when it’s Eliott asking it’s merely endearing.

“Right now?” Lucas asks, Eliott nods. “It’s blue, light blue. The last time it was orange, a bit yellow. The first time, a muddy blue,” Lucas frowns to himself, “it tends to do that a lot, yours, I mean, it changes.”

“It’s meant to stay the same?”

“No,” Lucas pushes the now fully wrapped herbs across the counter, “there are no rules. I guess it just means that you feel a lot. It’s not a bad thing.”

It’s these things — the softness to Eliott’s smile, the blatant awe that spills from his pupils and meets grey-blue like watercolour paints bleeding together — that act as gentle reminders of why Lucas does what he does; the little bursts of wonder it manifests into the sometimes otherwise darkened world.

“And what about yours?”

“You know—“ Eliott’s question goes unanswered, Lucas’ voice remains light despite how overwhelmed he feels. “—if you keep coming back I’m going to start thinking these aren’t working very well. Your cold really should have cleared up by now.”

Eliott bites down onto his bottom lip. Lucas’ eyes get caught on the movement, linger there before flicking back up to Eliott’s eyes.

“Maybe—” he’s met with a long pause, Eliott smiles, nervous. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to keep coming to see you.”

There’s a clarity to them, his words — they’re a bit shy but they’re definite, sure. It sends Lucas into a downward spiral. He stares at Eliott who stares right back, valour and bold.

“You wouldn’t need an excuse.” Lucas’ heart thumps a turbulent rhythm.

“No?”

Another customer enters through the door, they don’t care, Lucas doesn’t move an inch. Light flashes across Eliott’s face, wavering and bright with the movement of the door opening and shutting. It’s gone before it has time to settle, Eliott squints past it, he's ethereally beautiful. Lucas feels his heartbeat stutter, his thoughts scatter.

“No,” he whispers back. Little particles of dust dance in the golden light, obscuring and fuzzy like static. It adds a rich quality to the air, rustic almost.

“Well. I suppose it’s okay for me to admit now that the real reason I keep coming back is because I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out, then.”

“You have?”

“Well yes, Lucas—” Eliott’s response comes quickly, certain, “—you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

It’s this, out of all the things he’s learned about Eliott thus far, that shocks Lucas the most. And his name, again, spoken so tenderly, said with care. How it fits right there, in Eliott’s voice, in his accent. The words stain Lucas’ cheeks, how they harbour such conviction, like it’s obvious. Lucas feels giddy, smiles because it’s a bit hard to believe that someone as mesmerizing as Eliott would think such nice things about someone like Lucas. That’s amusing, to Eliott, the way Lucas can’t seem to detain how rapidly his heart flutters.

“So, would you like to?” he prompts at Lucas’ lack of response, “go on a date with me?”

The overbearing urge to scream _yes,_ and, _yes, yes, yes a million times over_ , that hits Lucas is unexpected and a little inapt. Eliott does these things, you see, he takes Lucas’ poise and he twists it into something unrecognizable, something new that he hasn’t felt before.

It’s quite fascinating, a bit terrifying.

“Yes,” it falls breathily into the space between them, floats along with the flecks of dust that move against the sun. “I’d love to.”

When Eliott smiles it’s winding, disastrous. Lucas is far too consumed within the wreckage of it all to care.

*

There’s an art supply shop that sits placidly in the far side of Paris.

Inside of this shop is tatty furniture and threadbare carpets, the curtains are frayed and the worn out floorboards squeak too much, but also inside this shop is Eliott. That’s a stark contrast that startles Lucas the very second he steps inside — how the anterior is dull and murky yet the brightness Eliott exudes somehow manages to equilibrate all of that.

It’s not what Lucas expected when Eliott texted him the address, yet it’s fitting, still.

Noticing the less obvious features of the place as he looks around, the bits that are more subtly Eliott — the paintings scattered over the countertop, in the glass of the mirrors, pinned against the walls. Different things, silly, quirky things like sunflowers and Van Gogh recreations, a collection of cartoon-like raccoons — Lucas decides he likes these parts best, disordered and imperfect yet beautiful in that way all the same. It's almost like a mirror image of Lucas' head currently, pieces of Eliott overflowing into his mind, and like an oil spill — messy and disastrous and _everywhere_ — it's a nightmare to clean, beyond that point, even. Lucas has never felt this way before.

“Hi,” Eliott emerges from the back, hair disorderly as the tangled thoughts in Lucas’ head, a shocking parallel that he finds himself almost laughing aloud at. “Ready?” It was hard to find a time that suited them both best, Eliott had complained, said he wanted to pick Lucas up before their date like they do in the movies. Lucas doesn't mind as much, he thinks he would let Eliott take him anywhere, at this stage.

Lucas nods, untangles his limps from all the overwhelming thoughts, and they go.

They walk side by side along the streets of Paris, the afternoon slipping into evening at their heels. Eliott has a backpack over one shoulder. “What’s in it?” Lucas asks. “It’s a surprise,” Eliott grins. He takes Lucas by the hand, swinging their arms between their bodies as they walk. It’s quite infantile, a bit romantic. Lucas’ heart flutters rapidly in his chest.

It’s not a far walk, soon they’re slipping in between the gaps of a steel gate, a forest swallowing them whole.

The last breaths of sun break through the cracks in the trees above, lighting up the dirty path ahead of them in shapes that are scattered and intricate. The path, it’s decorated with outgrown roots, wildflowers and fallen leaves, and it feels soft under Lucas’ feet. The earth is damp, his hands are a bit cold, it doesn’t really matter, Eliott is warm against his side anyway.

“—it’s called _la petite ceinture,_ ” Eliott is saying, inordinate shadows flickering over his face as they walk, a mirror image of the same ones on the ground below them, “it’s my favourite place in the city.”

“Keeping up with the witchy stereotypes then, I see,” Lucas teases. Eliott laughs, light and pretty. They come to a stop right where the sun cuts off, shaded by the arch of an old bridge.

“This is it,” Eliott announces. “What do you think.”

“It’s—“ it's dark, damp, _dreary_. The greyish walls are covered in both faded and vibrant bursts of graffiti. Lucas takes it all in, from the rusted beer cans crushed into the corner, the potent lingering smell of weed, to the expectant look on Eliott’s face now shadowed by stone. It’s _something_ — it’s Eliott’s favourite place in the whole city. “I love it.”

Eliott's returning grin is blinding, Lucas gets swept away in it.

A picnic blanket is placed onto the ground, where they sit opposite one another, legs crossed. Slowly, Eliott begins to unpack his bag — a battery powered lamp, _for when it gets dark,_ bread, cheese, ham, little chocolate covered strawberries, champagne that isn’t actually real champagne, _just the cheap stuff_ , and, most interestingly, the cards — Eliott’s tarot cards. They’re old, a bit faded, a little torn.

“Have you had a reading before?” Eliott asks, later into the night, champagne has been passed around, food consumed and stories shared. He shuffles the cards in his hands. There’s a touch of delicacy in the way he does it, it’s fluid, practiced, entrancing.

Lucas shrugs, too distracted by the intricate muscle movements made by Eliott’s hands. “It’s been a while.” The light is flicked on, oranges and yellows match the colour of his aura today, similar to the day a few previous to this one. It twists into something gold, illuminates Eliott’s skin amidst the dark in a way that makes Lucas feel dizzy.

“Can I?”

Lucas nods. Nerves twist in his stomach, a soft sort of panic that reminds him of how vulnerable things like these make him — these things; showing his aura, allowing Eliott to venture into his self-conscience. The light around them is inky, the sun falling behind the architecture of Paris in the distance. Although, here, further into the outskirts, away from the bustle, stars are less frail. Those and the curl of a slight moon create a soft glow over them, here, at Eliott’s favourite place in the city, here, under a bridge that Lucas is sort of starting to like, where it’s only them and the moon and the stars. Lucas feels his anxiety begin to wither, here, he finds himself thinking about how desperately he wants to know everything about the boy in front of him, and that also for Eliott to know everything about him in return doesn’t seem as frightening anymore. His breath exhales a misty white around them, there is a hint of heat radiating from the lamp, or perhaps it's just the presence Eliott seems to have — warm, gentle.

“Shuffle the cards,” Eliott instructs softly, “as many times as it feels right.” Lucas does so, three times, with as much care as Eliott had shown previously, because it feels necessary to do so — because something tells Lucas these cards hold a significance to him that Lucas could probably never understand. “Now split them into three sections, and restack them on top of one another until they make a full deck again, as many times as you like.” Lucas does this twice, letting his intuition guide him. “Fan out the cards,” is Eliott’s next order, as light as the first, “focus on your breath, calm your mind, try to set your intentions, then pick three. Any three you like, the ones you feel most drawn to.”

The air feels heavy in a way that is gravely intense. Sound is sparse, faint chirps of the nighttime wildlife the only audible interference to the little bubble they have created around themselves. Lucas’ hand hovers over the splay of cards, fingertips brushing over their worn edges lightly until he has withdrawn three from the pack.

“Okay,” Lucas breathes, Eliott clears away the remaining cards, three sit dominant in between them. “What now?”

“Now—“ Eliott points to the first card Lucas had placed in front of him, “this one,” he flips it over, “it’s your past, _the star_.”

“What does it mean?”

Eliott’s eyes are rapt; fascination rings his pupils, cusps his voice, guides his movements. “The star's presence signifies a period of renewal. This can be spiritual, physical, or even both. The star is a generally positive sign, optimistic, especially if you or someone close to you is recovering from an illness or injury. It’s like a light in the darkness, hearsay, it illuminates your future and your past.” There’s a considerable silence, Eliott purses his lips, gaze fixed on the cards. Lucas can’t help but think of his mother, the clinic, how dark it gets when he goes there.

“There may be hardships in your past that you want to move on from,” Eliott explains further, “You must rely on your inner strength as well as your external support systems to do so. That’s—” he sighs, seems to break from his poise, his flow, this time he speaks to Lucas directly, “This one I’ve always liked, it’s a reminder that at the end of all struggles there's always peace, like the light at the end of a tunnel.”

Lucas makes an incoherent noise, shrugging, “Not always, though.” Eliott only considers him briefly, a bit strangely as if he wants to ask something before seemingly deciding against it. 

He flips over the next card.

“Your present, _the sun_ ,” he provides. “This is your focus, in a sense. There is an opportunity for new friendships or a relationship that will lead to happiness and contentment. The sun is a card of life, joy and energy. It reveals positive achievements, an overall manifestation of good fortune in your life. Finding the sun is quite positive. It's suggestive of personal gain, that personal goals and joy are within reach, if you're willing to invest the effort to achieve them.”

Lucas hums, “Well yes, I’m here with you, aren’t I?” The comment is mostly an incident, was supposed to be lighthearted, teasing. _New friendships or a relationship._ Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s something new, it’s something Lucas is willing to put effort into because he likes the way Eliott makes him feel — that is, happy, content. He hadn’t meant for it to land with such momentum, for Eliott to look at him as though he has just hung the moon. But he doesn’t take it back, instead lets the words hang there, transparent and bold. It sizzles and burns, Eliott's eyes are intense until they're not, until he looks away.

There's one last unturned card on the blanket, after a few moments Eliott taps it lightly with his finger. “The future,” he says, then, flipping it, “ _The knight of cups.”_ He smiles, he’s beautiful like this, Lucas thinks, _entranced,_ doing what he loves most.

“And what does he say about my life, then?” Lucas leans closer, intrigued.

Eliott traces the curve of the card, distractedly, almost, like he isn’t aware that he’s even doing it. “Well, the knight of cups is a romantic and compassionate dreamer, he brings along new opportunities and positive invitations. He represents self-acceptance and an arrival to finding the right path for your life.” It’s this, out of all that Eliott has said, that maybe hits Lucas the hardest, or not the hardest, but the deepest. It’s a fleeting feeling he gets but quickly shuts down. Eliott continues. “You must stay focused and follow your most passionate beliefs. This may lead to progress towards your goals, or help you to find peace in deep, meaningful connections with others.”

There’s a brief silence. Lucas shifts on the blanket, doesn’t really know what to say. “Romantic, huh?” is what he settles with. Eliott chuckles lightly.

“These are all quite positive readings, you know,” he answers, mostly ignoring Lucas’ comment, “hopeful ones. Most people don’t get that.”

Lucas hums. “I don’t know about that, now, _Nostradamus_. I think I have reason to believe your thoughts are a little biased when it comes to my future.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

His question, like most others tonight, goes unanswered, Lucas shrugs, plopping a chocolate covered strawberry into his mouth. He chews on it, smirking, then washing it down with a swing of the champagne straight from the bottle, thinks, that by the way Eliott bites abashedly onto his bottom lip, he knows exactly what is being insinuated, anyway.

“I mean, these are just my interpretations of what they mean for me,” Eliott picks up after a while, ”it’s not in any way a prediction of your future, more of like — like a way to find a meaningful perspective to your past, an understanding of the present, you know, it reveals alternative possibilities for the future. I guess you can take my interpretation and interpret that as your own.” He pauses, busying himself with tidying away the cards. “The future is a long way away, anyway,” he shrugs shyly, “It doesn’t mean all of these things are reflective of your life right now.”

And well — Lucas isn’t so sure about that. He curses himself for acting like a bit of an asshole, making Eliott withdraw on the beauty of his talent.

“Technically,” he passes the bottle of champagne over to Eliott, watches indulgently as his throat works against the liquid, “every second after the last can be considered the future. The present is only ever the very second we exist in.”

Abruptly, Eliott pulls the bottle away, frowning, “That would mean the past, present and future all exist at once. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well what if they do,” Lucas challenges, then lets out a light chuckle. “You know, you never know when you’ll find romance — in a library, leaving class, at a grocery store, waiting in line at the post office,” he pauses, smiling despite the turmoil in his chest, “under a creepy bridge that smells like weed and beer.” 

Eliott laughs, unexpectedly, soft and pretty despite the forwardness of Lucas' words. He leans closer. “Is that so?”

Lucas hums, nodding. “ _Technically_ _speaking,_ ” he draws the words out, slow, teasing, revels in the way Eliott smiles, “my future—" Something draws them even closer, it could have been the wind, the force of the moon pulling them together like it draws in a tide at night, perhaps it’s the peculiar realisation that there is in fact something oddly romantic about being here with Eliott, mostly because it’s him and Lucas can’t seem to think of anything else these days — of the fact that he has never felt quite this enraptured by anyone ever. “It could start... right..." They’re close and Lucas feels lightheaded, maybe that’s because of the champagne, the way Eliott’s hand runs up his arm, slowly, grazing over his shoulder until it’s cupped along his neck, how Lucas' hand fists the material of Eliott's t-shirt. Maybe it’s how their foreheads press together, the way their noses brush, the warmth of their breath, the sound of it hitching, heartbeats thumping. Maybe Lucas is in a dream.

_“Now.”_

When Eliott’s lips press against his, the feeling is divine. It’s a surge of fire and waves; a sudden desperation swiftly soothed by the gentleness of it all.

Lucas had been unprepared for it — less in the way you are unprepared for a car to fling around a bend and more like the ill-equipment that comes along with leaving the house with no coat or umbrella despite knowing that it’s about to rain. Lucas saw it coming, wanted it to happen, yet it still knocks him out breathless.

Eliott’s lips are soft, he tastes contrastingly like the bitterness of that cheap champagne along with the sweetness of strawberries. Lucas’ hands find Eliott’s hair while Eliott’s cup Lucas’ cheeks, fingertips pressing into the blazing flesh there, set alight, consumed by the flame that seethes in their lips and their tongues. His hair is soft, too, like untouched snow, smooth like newly weaved silk.

They kiss, broken noises rise from Lucas’ chest and slip right into Eliott’s, some spill into the night. They kiss, and stars are sparse in Paris, but not here, where magic is so profoundly present between these two boys who want nothing more than to just find someone who fits. Nothing has ever fit quite like this, Lucas thinks distantly, as Eliott tilts his head to kiss him deeper. No one has ever kissed Lucas quite like this, either — like it’s everything; like it’s endless.

They kiss, and the stars are brighter now, with every gasp of air they fall together again deeper than the time before. 

Eliott pulls away, just slightly, for long enough that it prompts Lucas to open his eyes. The brush of Eliott’s thumb across his cheekbone is electric.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, breath fanning along Lucas’ left cheek. Words can’t even comprehend the feeling, how intense it is, _encompassing_. The only thing he is able to do is pull Eliott into him again, closer, deeper, _fathomless._

So they kiss, and it’s like this: they emerge from the folds of the forest, stumbling, drunk off the taste of each other alone, and they find that the night could never be long enough. The stars don’t last, the moon, either. The only way to savour such a high is to lock it away. The stairway to Eliott’s apartment is far too quiet for the disorder they bring in their wake — laughter bright and eyes even brighter. But hidden under the covers, in a small room in the centre of Paris where outside the city still thrives, it is tender.

It goes exactly like this: they touch, they breathe, they kiss. There is bright red, burning skin, blazing red, soft words, a trace of pink.

And like a fire, _scorching,_ it consumes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ending kind of sucks but it also doesn't really count because i found a loophole — there is a part two on its way.
> 
> thank u for reading, i'm on tumblr [@lumierelovers](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/), let me know what you think! 💛
> 
> [ficpost](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/post/612758476850167808/theres-magic-in-all-of-this-part-one-lucas)


	2. phosphoresce, psychokinesis, fuchsia pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i lied when i said there would be two parts because i had far too many ideas for these two, and so now there will be three. love u all, i hope u enjoy this 🌟
> 
> (tw for descriptions of bipolar/depressive episodes in this one)
> 
> also posted on [my tumblr](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/post/613575212546572288/theres-magic-in-all-of-this-part-two-lucas)

The sun is light on Lucas’ skin.

There’s a breeze that comes with the adjournment of winter and the beginnings of spring. The playfulness to nature at this time of year is what Lucas adores most; the youthful innocence to the sky, the grass, the trees. The fern green of forests, the fresh scent of flowers, the awakening of wildlife. Lucas drinks it up, tilts his head back as he walks through campus alongside Yann and he smiles as the daylight swallows him entirely.

It’s early, the sunlight is soft and diffused, giving way to the first strong rays of the day. It creates a warmth that falls over skin and sinks deep. In the sky, the clouds are sparse, in the grass that surrounds campus daffodils grow plentiful, bright and yellow and vibrant. The air feels sweet, soft, serene.

Lucas spots Eliott just as he’s leaving the campus coffee shop.

He’s carrying that same black folder in one hand, an iced coffee in the other while attempting to balance far too many art supplies under his arms all at once and he’s enthralling. The way the early morning softens his skin and highlights his aura is exquisite. It’s purple today. Or, more specifically, it’s indigo and then it’s lavender. _Daydreamer_ , it says, _artistic, imaginative, creative._ Lucas is vastly aware that Eliott is all of these things by now, with the art he makes and the short films he works on, but to see it so clearly in the broad of daylight is something magnificent.

Next to him, Yann snorts. “ _Jesus Christ,_ you’re so whipped.” Lucas turns to glare at him but doesn’t defend himself. He is, he knows, completely enamoured by Eliott at this point. It’s no use denying that. He flits his eyes back towards the coffee shop. Over the path that twists throughout campus, their gazes meet. Eliott smiles, it’s wide and bright and extremely charming. Lucas feels warm all over.

All of Lucas’ coherent thoughts get muddled into tangled ones, though, as soon as Eliott crosses the path and closes the distance between them.

“Hi guys,” he grins. Ice rattles inside of the plastic cup he holds. He presses a kiss to Lucas’ cheek, fleeting and startling, then pulls away, giddy. Yann speaks when it’s clear enough that Lucas is too dumbstruck to form words.

“Hey, Eliott, how’s it going?”

Campus is strangely fussy at this hour. Students pass them in groups, some large and others small, some in twos, hand in hand. A boy swerves around them on a skateboard, there’s a girl walking a dog, stopping momentarily to let it drink from a water bottle before continuing on her journey. Lucas isn’t as agitated by it as much as he usually would be. Maybe that’s because of the lightness in the air, the glint in Eliott’s eyes.

“Yeah, great!” Eliott’s voice has a sparkling quality to it, like excitement only it extends into something deeper. It reels Lucas in until he is entirely entranced by it, as though cast by a spell. “I’m just heading to class. We’re starting this new project, actually,” he’s saying, “it’s kind of like a play on lights and shadows. So we have to figure out a way to incorporate that into our art. I’ve been trying to brainstorm ideas all morning but I’m not really having much luck.” He huffs, lightly, adorably.

The supplies tucked against Eliott’s chest make a lot more sense now. They begin to slip, he readjusts them.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Lucas reassures him. “You’re so talented.”

Eliott’s smile softens, just for him. It reminds Lucas of pretty things, gentle things and things that are warm. The sun is still gleaming but Eliott and his smile and his eyes are so much brighter, and he’s looking at Lucas as if nothing else exists around them. It’s a lot, this early in the morning, especially when Lucas is not a morning person at all.

Something hits the ground.

It’s at this moment, and thinking back to all moments alike — where Eliott stumbles into Lucas’ life with his distractingly compelling auras, his bright words and his ethereally pretty smile — that Lucas realises he could fall. He could fall for this, for _Eliott,_ so hard. And that maybe he already has, just a little. It’s a devastating thought, with the little flecks of blue that swim inside the grey of Eliott’s eyes and hit off the sun, he realises that it’s far too late, now, to be concerned about falling when he most likely already has.

Something hits the ground, hard and metamorphic, and it’s Lucas.

But falling is a wishy-washy thing. To fall insinuates that there is something there for you to land on, and whether that something is safe and constant or turbulent and catastrophic is difficult to predict. Especially when Eliott is a tornado and Lucas is this fragile branch, asking Eliott to swarm over here and hurt him, giving him that. Letting him in, giving him everything. 

“I should go,” Eliott tells them, gesturing with his elbow towards the art building. “I’ll be late, so.”

“Yeah,” Lucas pants, breathless with these new thoughts, “see you later?” They made plans on the phone last night to go and see a movie together. Eliott smiles, nods, almost trips over his own feet as he backs away.

“I take back what I said,” Yann speaks when Eliott is gone and they’re walking again, “you’re _both_ so whipped and quite frankly I’m embarrassed for you.”

Lucas elbows him in the side, they laugh, the sun is light. **  
  
**

*

The clinic smells vaguely of lemon cleaning products and sickness, artificial, pungently unpleasant. Furniture resembling something you would find in a hospital ward is a poor attempt at mimicking a home-like atmosphere — hideous floral patterned curtains, a carpet too soft under Lucas’ feet. The framed photos hung along the hallway are impersonal and generic.

Lucas doesn’t visit nearly as often as he should.

The garden is forgivable. This is where they often meet, if the weather allows for it. Out here the only smell is fresh greenery, the newly blossomed flowers planted by residents. There is an old wooden picnic bench shaded by the branch of a large tree, on this they sit opposite one another, drinking tea that is freshly steeped and warm as it pours down Lucas’ throat.

“So, how are things?” his mother asks. She emits a soft green. Green like the rawness of leaves and the youthfulness to the grass below their feet. _A healer_. Not necessarily in practice, not like Lucas is — she can’t, not really, not anymore, not now that she is here. But it’s still there, it lingers within her despite the demons that cloud her head. 

The evening withdraws the sun but light still persists. A sheer scarf covers her shoulders, it waterfalls delicately over her arms and onto her lap. Soon the warmth of the sun will fade, they’ll have to return inside.

At her question, Lucas can’t help but smile. _Things_ recently have mostly consisted of Eliott, see — meeting Eliott for lunch, seeing a movie with Eliott, Eliott walking him home from class, going grocery shopping with Eliott, Eliott falling asleep in his arms. _Eliott, Eliott, Eliott._ It is, as he thinks about it, quite a notable life adjustment, to become so consumed within the thrill of another person, to lose yourself within the euphoria and newness of it all.

“Good,” Lucas answers modestly, casually. “Yeah.”

“What’s that smile for, then?” There’s a glint in his mother’s eyes. She knows him all too well, always has, even though he doesn’t show it, his happiness, contentment, _infatuation_ , his smile is far too telling. “Just good?”

“Well—“ Lucas huffs, wind nestles into his skin, he looks away gingerly, “there is this boy.”

“Oh?” She’s shocked.

He hums, the porcelain of his teacup is lukewarm by now. “Eliott.”

“Eliott,” she repeats, name delicate in her soft motherly tone. “And he treats you right?”

“Yes,” Lucas says, his breathing lightens, intertwines with the evening breeze. His mother still smiles, like nothing has changed, like with every inhale and exhale life shutters on, happy despite it all, despite the darkness, the demons, the dreary days. “He’s perfect.” Hidden within the bad days there are always the good ones, anyway, like the sweetness you find at the bottom of the fruit bowl.

“A witch?” is her next question, not necessary, merely curious. 

Lucas nods. 

“I’ll have to meet him soon, then,” she decides, insistent.

“Of course.” Lucas chuckles lightly, doesn’t quite remember the last time he felt so content, here, where the demons haunt his mother the most.

The sun goes, and along with it they step inside, through the stuffy communal living area, back down the lemon smelling hallway and into a room that digs a grave of guilt. A room that’s minimal save for the few photos taped to the far wall, some birthday cards on the dresser. There are no candles in this room, no jars littering the windowsills, or herbs hanging from the ceilings, there are no spell books or healings that take place. Not in a place like this, where long ago illness was mistaken for sorcery, and now, as though reversed, _irreconcilable_ , occultism accuses insanity. Lucas hates himself for putting her here, it sits heavy in his chest every single day like a sin. But it’s the only way he can make sure that she is safe, it was the only option.

“You’re still doing it,” she speaks after a while. Observant, again. They sit now at the ledge of her bed, the embroidery of the duvet is a strange texture beneath Lucas’ fingers.

“What?”

“Hiding,” she says, “your aura.”

Lucas sighs. They’ve been through this too many times. “Maman—“

She hushes him. “You know, we have feelings, Lucas, that isn’t something you need to hide. We live and we breathe and we feel things. There’s happiness and sadness and there’s love and showing these isn’t a weakness, it’s what makes you _you_.” A sinking feeling unfolds in Lucas’ stomach, reminds him of his disappointing qualities, his failures. “It’s a gift you have, to see what you see. And beautiful, too, no?” Lucas looks away, thinks of blues and yellows and purples and _blue._ Blue, blue, blue. He nods, it’s beautiful how Eliott’s aura is inimitable now that Lucas has seen it once, how nothing else is ever as vibrant anymore, ever so remarkable. “To feel makes us alive, makes us exist, and that’s something extraordinary. You worry too much, my love.”

He thinks of what Eliott would say if he knew, what he would think if he found out Lucas was so afraid of the one thing he simultaneously loved the most about himself. It’s confusing, a bit twisted. It’s been weighing on his mind a lot lately.

“I know, maman,” he whispers. “I know.”

**  
  
  
**

*

**  
  
**

Their interactions are infrequent over the next while. They do go and see that movie, and they meet after class one day for coffee.

But then they stop all together.

Eliott doesn’t come into Lucas’ shop, doesn’t respond to any of the texts Lucas sends to him: a stupid meme he found on twitter that reminded him of Eliott, another asking if he wanted to meet up, a few asking if things are okay. The silence is abrupt and depriving, out of the blue. There’s one day where Lucas goes to Eliott’s work, paces the aisles aimlessly until a girl with short black hair and neon green eyeshadow comes over to tell him that Eliott isn’t working today. Lucas doesn’t ask how she had known he was here for that in the first place. But he thanks her anyway and he leaves. That was two days ago.

And so. Now Lucas is here, a little over a week since they last spoke, standing outside Eliott’s apartment building, waiting for someone to let him in, and he’s worried. The sun has set and the evening is cold, streetlights forming shapes of diffused gold onto the damp pavement below him. He could just snap the lock, it wouldn’t take much, not for him — but he’s also not quite in the mood to explain to any authorities how he was able to do so. _I’m magic,_ he would say, and they would laugh. _Nonsense, magic doesn’t exist._ Only they haven’t met people like Lucas and Eliott, so how could they know.

The stairway is dreary when Lucas slips into the building after a young couple finally arrive to let themselves in. White paint appears more grey in the sparse lighting, chipped and stained. Lucas climbs the stairs until he reaches the third floor, stands outside the door that leads to Eliott’s apartment, stares at the crooked number six nailed to the wood until it doesn’t really look like a number anymore and then he’s knocking before he can convince himself of how stupid this is.

Ten seconds pass before there’s a shuffling sound on the other side of the door, metal clanking and a chain sliding undone. The door opens and Idriss stands opposite him.

“Lucas?”

“Hi,” Lucas feels out of breath. “Is Eliott home?” 

Idriss stands in the hallway, a gym bag slung over his shoulder and a peculiar looking smoothie in his hand and his eyes are solicitous. Lucas gets a little lost in their darkness, deep and alluring but as though death itself has caved its way into the apartment and obscured any desire of light, like there’s something weighing him down. His aura is a muddy kind of yellow, a little grey at the edges. It’s an indication of fatigue, from trying to do too much all at once — _he’s worried,_ _it’s wearing him out._

“Eliott—he’s—” a sigh, “he’s not well.” Idriss toys with the cap of his bottle.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” 

Lucas feels a little silly, now, standing here, without any valid reason other than his heart feels too much and Idriss is still watching him, curious and searching, as though there is something hiding behind the despair and concern in Lucas’ eyes that means something.

“I’m heading out,” Idriss speaks after a long pause. “But you can stay, if you want. I think it’d be good for him, actually, to see you.”

The words are implying. Lucas nods, “Yeah, okay. If you think so.”

He moves further into the apartment, Idriss says he’ll be back late. Lucas slips off his shoes, because somehow it feels wrong to bring noise inside of here with him when everything else is tangled in a strange sort of silence. The floorboards creak under his socked feet, worn and eerie as he walks down the hallway. The apartment is still, a bit cold.

 _He’s sick,_ Esmée has told him before, _they don’t cure him, the herbs, but they help._ Lucas never pries, never asks any questions because that’s not his job. His job is to sell the remedies not to query the need for their use. It's none of his business.

Shadows weigh down Eliott’s bedroom. The curtains are drawn when Lucas enters, random items of clothing strewn across the floor and at the end of the bed. He’s met with a silence that could kill, one that paints a heaviness in his chest. There’s a lump under the covers, a mess of brown hair peeking out from the top, a steady yet almost ominous rise and fall of breathing — all illuminated by the sparse lighting that creeps in from the hallway.

“Eliott?”

The lump shuffles, lets out a heavy sigh.

“What are you doing here?” Eliott looks at him now, covers pushed down to his chin, eyes blinking into the grey of the room and he looks so _tired,_ so _exhausted_.

Lucas hovers in the doorway, doesn’t really know how to respond. He twists his hands together, timidly takes a step closer. _I miss you_ , he wants to say, as if that’s a reason in itself. It’s not. Not really — not a fair one, anyway.

“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he decides on, “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Eliott huffs, “I’m okay.”

Lucas nods. Doesn’t say that Eliott doesn’t really look it, because maybe that’s not what he needs to hear right now.

“Do you—” he pauses. Eliott blinks again, even such an intrinsic motion seems so effortful to him, onerous. “Do you need anything?” There’s an empty glass on the nightstand and a half filled mug on the floor by the bed. Lucas looks at them and then back at Eliott. 

“Idriss is here,” Eliott mumbles. 

“He went to the gym.”

“Oh,” Eliott breathes, “yeah,” like he knew but forgot and now Lucas has reminded him. “He does that a lot.”

“Goes to the gym?” Lucas shuts the door, darkness swallows them, thick and murky. He takes another few steps towards the bed.

Eliott hums, “Says it’s good for stress.” His voice is scratchy with disuse.

“He’s right,” Lucas lets out a light breath, lingers at the side of Eliott’s bed not really knowing what to do with himself now that he’s here. “So do you, need anything?” 

A long silence unfurls, Eliott now stares at the ceiling. The sleeves of Lucas’ hoodie are frayed, threads coming undone under the nervous twiddling of his fingers. He thinks about the orange and yellows and purples from a few weeks ago, how far removed they seem now that they’re here, a dullness consuming them that only seems to thicken.

“No,” Eliott whispers, empty, eyes still fixed on the same point above him.

There’s something about his aura today that causes an ache to surge throughout Lucas’ chest. It’s dark like the room they’re in, jaded like the bruised purple under Eliott’s eyes. It’s black, is what it is. A worn out, miserable, lifeless black.

 _Negative feelings_ , Lucas thinks to himself, _blocked energy, tiredness_ , _extreme fatigue_ , even, _potential illness_. There is black everywhere. It's in the shadows that twist over the walls, set into the deep curves of Eliott’s frown, the depths of his pupils, knitted into the soft material of his cotton t-shirt. There is black in the way he speaks low and in the way his words are long — vowels strung together carelessly and sighs that seem to strip the air of any life. There is black in the plant that sits wilted on the windowsill, leaves withered and cold. It stains the bristles of the paintbrushes that are scattered over his desk.

He’s drowning within a literal black hole — _he’s sick —_ and it feels like there is nothing Lucas can do about it — _it’s none of your business._

“Do you want me to go?”

He asks it because suddenly everything feels like too much, like Lucas shouldn’t have realised all of this on his own because it’s not his place, not his business. And standing here, still at the edge of where Eliott’s heavy body rests, feels as though he’s overstepping. He’s seen something Eliott hasn’t shared with him yet, maybe deliberately or maybe not. Either way — this, it’s unfair. Because Eliott is feeling and Lucas is hiding and what they have is new. What they _are_ is new and it’s undefined and it is so new, treacherously new. Something strange twists in Lucas’ stomach.

“I don’t know,” is Eliott’s answer, lost and quiet, but he looks at Lucas now, at least. “I think—” Lucas waits as he pauses, watches as he fists his hands into the duvet before releasing, listens as he huffs out another sigh, “I think I want you to stay.”

“Yeah?” Lucas purses his lips, doesn’t allow the trace of a smile show on his face because maybe now isn’t the best time to feel so enamoured by the way a little hint of blue in Eliott’s eyes seems to cut through the darkness despite all of the black.

Eliott nods, it’s slow but deliberate. “Only if you want to.”

“I do, want to. Of course I want to.” It’s obvious, at this point, how loudly and recklessly Lucas’ heart feels.

For a moment Eliott smiles, it’s fleeting and a little sad — grateful mostly, but it’s there nonetheless and that’s all Lucas needs.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“It’s nothing,” Lucas tells him, “I wanted to see you.”

 _I missed you._

Eliott’s eyes are bleary, unfocused as they continue to stare at an oddly shaped shadow on the ceiling. His skin is white like frost, cold like ice. Not much else is said. Lucas perches himself on the edge of Eliott’s bed, traces his finger along the stitching of the duvet, gets distracted by the collection of crystals and stones displayed on the windowsill and the sketches taped to the walls.

Lucas recognises some of them, the stones and the crystals. Blue calcite, amethyst, opal, rose quartz, moonstone, lapis lazuli, a lot more. They’re stunning, the little colour they carry to Eliott’s bedroom when it is so otherwise grey right now is hopeful. Lucas makes a mental note to ask Eliott to explain them to him one day — he’s always had a loose intrigue that he’s never fully delved into before on his own.

“Sorry I’m not being very much fun.” Eliott’s voice is startling, it comes after a silence Lucas didn’t expect to end. “I get this way when I’m not well. Boring, I mean.”

 _What do you mean when you say you’re not well. How often does this happen. What more can I do to help you, I want to help._ Lucas thinks all of these things but he doesn’t allow himself to say them. It would be extremely unfair of him, he realises. Instead he frowns. “You’re not boring. You’re literally the least boring person I have ever met.”

“You say that,” Eliott huffs, “but I’ve done nothing but sleep for a week straight.” 

Lucas shrugs, there’s a strange silence.

“That’s okay,” he says after a while, when he realises Eliott isn’t going to expand. “If you’re still tired you can sleep some more. I’ll still be here, for as long as you want me to be. I don’t mind.”

A few moments pass where Eliott just watches him, as though searching for something. His eyes are a bit like a void, there isn’t much there when Lucas stares back. He almost gets lost in it, feels an ache deep in the gaps of his ribs, pressing down against his heart, firm and sharp like knives — Lucas feels the black almost as if it were his own and it hurts.

It hurts to see Eliott this way.

Eventually Eliott nods. “Okay.” His voice is low, shattered. “You can sleep too, if you want. It’s getting late.” 

It’s not really that late, Lucas thinks. It’s eight, maybe close to half, and yet that doesn’t really stop him. He shuffles backwards until he’s further onto the bed, then, slipping under the covers, asks, “Is this okay?”

Eliott presses a soft sound of contentment into his pillow, turning on his side to face Lucas. He blinks sleepily, slowly, until his eyes remain shut. Breaths filter out gently, there’s a clump of hair matted to his forehead. Lucas reaches over to smooth it out, finds then that Eliott’s hair isn’t soft like Lucas remembers it to be. Unlike the way the strands seem to fall through his fingers like velvet the times they’ve kissed, it’s now greasy, stuck in bits and clumps. Up close, his face looks thin, thinner than usual. It somehow makes him appear smaller, curled up like this, swallowed in blankets and contoured in all and many shades of black.

Lucas tucks the duvet back up to Eliott’s chin, seals the warmth, uses it as an excuse to press himself closer. Eliott smells like boy and sleep. It’s not necessarily a pleasant smell but it’s familiar and it’s Eliott. 

Nighttime draws close. Lucas ebbs in and out of sleep but Eliott remains still throughout, the pattern of his breathing steady, eyelids flickering occasionally. Black lingers.

They fall asleep close but separately, yet somehow, at some strange hour of the night, they fuse like the eclipse of a sun and a moon. Limbs tangling and small exposures of skin brushing, bodies pressed up close until there is no end.

And like pieces of a puzzle finally slotting together in the way that they were always meant to, Eliott sleeps and Lucas sleeps, too. **  
**

* **  
**

Warm tones of sunlight are diffused over Eliott’s bedroom when Lucas wakes.

His eyes blink open gradually, like while lying here, tangled in Eliott’s arms, he has all the time in the world. Time is a strange concept anyway. Or it feels as such, here, now, to Lucas. It could be seven in the morning or two in the afternoon and Lucas wouldn’t know, wouldn’t even necessarily care. Eliott makes a sound in his sleep, Lucas looks up, peeling his face from Eliott’s warm chest. His eyelashes are long and dark against his cheeks, lips parted slightly. He is soft this way, Lucas thinks, at peace in the gentle morning sunlight, dreams wrapping up their loose ends to prepare him for the day ahead.

But Eliott doesn’t wake, not for a long while. Lucas is content waiting — he said he would, anyway. After a while his stomach growls, though, urgent and demanding. He untangles himself from Eliott slowly as to not disturb him, slips out of the room and shuffles down the hallway, socks dragging lazily against the floorboards. There’s a note in the kitchen, _went to class,_ it reads, _back around 3, text if you need anything,_ and then at the bottom, messy and in brackets, _also lucas, if you’re still here, don’t be afraid to help yourself to anything — idriss._ Lucas chuckles softly, then goes to search the cupboards for something to eat.

There’s not much. He finds some cereal but no milk, some herbal teas in a small glass jar, there’s eggs and bread too, but neither seem to appeal to him very much. Lucas slips on his trainers, takes a quick peek into Eliott’s bedroom to make sure he’s still sleeping, then grabs the set of keys that hang by the front door. 

The air is cool when he steps outside, colder than anticipated but there’s a bakery just around the corner so he doesn’t dwell too much. 

It’s a stark contrast to the stuffiness of Eliott’s apartment, how light feels unnatural now, unsettling. But it’s not inordinary how the grey seems to follow Lucas, down the dim stairwell and out into the streets. That’s something that happens, seldom, when an aura is strong enough; when the connection is strong enough — they latch on. And now, Lucas has this strange heaviness in his chest that feels dark and gloomy and frayed.

He isn’t gone long, five minutes, maybe. When he lets himself back into Eliott’s place it’s to find Eliott standing in the kitchen with his back to the door. His shoulders are hunched, head hung low. The sound of the door clicking shut startles him.

“Oh,” he breathes. His eyes are wide, a frown etched between his eyebrows. He’s holding Idriss’ note. “I thought you left.”

Lucas sets the keys onto the counter. Realises that Eliott looks maybe a bit relieved to see him here, doesn’t really know what to make of it. “Sorry,” Lucas holds up the paper bag in his hand, “I went to get croissants. I was going to leave a note but I didn’t think you’d wake up.” Eliott’s eyes flit over to the bag, he crumples the note, looking away. “I borrowed your keys,” Lucas says, more out of a lack of something to say than anything else, “I hope that’s okay.”

There’s a few moments where Eliott just stares at him, distant as if he hadn’t even heard Lucas speak. He seems to shake himself out of it. “Yeah, uh. It’s fine.”

Lucas nods. “Are you hungry?” he asks, moving around Eliott to boil the kettle and get out some plates. “They’re still warm,” he says when Eliott doesn’t respond. A minute passes, still no response. The kettle whistles, the sound cuts into the sombre morning air. “Eliott,” he urges softly, dropping two teabags into two mugs. Eliott only hums noncommittally. Lucas places a croissant onto a plate for him anyway. 

They sit at the table as they eat, across from one another. Only Eliott doesn’t really eat — he picks at the loose flakes that fall from his croissant and takes a few occasional sips of his tea but that’s all, really. Not much is said.

Eliott seems content enough to silently listen to Lucas ramble on about the dream he had that night, one about being late for class and having to make a presentation in his underwear in front of the entire lecture hall. _A nightmare, really,_ he jokes. Eliott smiles, slight but there. Lucas counts it as a win.

“I’m sorry,” Eliott speaks after a while of silence, his voice scratchy like a cold, “you know, for all of this. And for not responding to your texts.”

Lucas shakes his head, “it’s okay,” he assures. He had been confused before, a bit hurt, but coming here, seeing Eliott like this — reserved, quiet. Lucas gets it now. Unanswered texts don’t matter, not really.

“No but—“ Eliott sighs, frustrated. “It’s not. And I do that a lot, when I get like this, when—“ his words break off again. Lucas places a hand over his forearm.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you aren’t ready to tell me just because I’m here, okay?” _There’s things I’m not telling you too._ “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me, or whatever. I’m here because I want to be.”

“Yeah, but that’s why I want to tell you. _Because_ it’s you. Because I care about you, and because I want you to know everything.”

It’s a bit like that night a few weeks ago, how a flame ignites in Lucas’ chest and how it fizzles and bubbles and burns. The feeling is devouring, _because I care about you,_ because sometimes it feels like no one does. And yet, here Eliott is, saying that, feeling like this, still wanting to share things with Lucas, and it’s a lot. It’s formidable yet thrilling in that way, like the dizzying ripples of a rollercoaster.

The kitchen is quiet at this hour, when it’s early still, not necessarily morning but not afternoon either. The hours are foggy, a bit like Lucas’ head, stuck between telling Eliott the things he’s afraid of and letting them eat away at him until he’s nothing but bones.

Despite this, Lucas still nods, lets Eliott continue because at the end of the day his heart still beats the way it does around him. He’s still weak that way, ill-fated to fall.

“I’m bipolar,” is what Eliott says, picking at the ragged skin by his nail beds, “that’s why I haven’t been replying to your texts or wanting to meet up, or doing anything, really.”

“Oh,” Lucas breathes, thinks about what the right thing to say is, he never has been very good with this stuff, with words. Even after all that he went through with his mother he still finds himself not really knowing what to do. “You—“

Eliott shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything, Lucas, it’s fine. I just wanted you to know. And if it’s too much — because it does get like that a lot — then—“

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Lucas frowns, finds Eliott’s hand and stops him from picking at the threads of skin. Thinks it must hurt at least a little. He squeezes Eliott’s hand. “Thank you for telling me. Don’t worry about all of that, you know, the texts and stuff. I don’t care. I’m just glad that I’m here, and that you want me to be.”

“Of course.” When Eliott smiles it’s soft, private, highlighted by the sun that pours in through the kitchen window. Lucas brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a light kiss there, on the back of Eliott’s hand where the skin is the softest, then brings them under his chin, right over his chest where it burns the brightest.

**  
  
  
**

Lucas leaves not long after, with assignments to be finished and work to attend to and all that. He doesn’t want to go, not really, but he should. He should.

Eliott walks him to the door, silently watches him tie his shoelaces and then kisses him by the doorway just as he’s about to leave. It’s a little sudden, Lucas hadn’t expected it. It doesn’t last long, but it’s deep, tentative. It almost knocks Lucas off his feet.

“I’ll see you soon,” Lucas whispers when they separate, foreheads touching. Eliott nods, eyes still shut as if caught in a spell. “Text me if you need anything, okay?” Another nod. Then he’s being pulled into a tight hug. Eliott’s chest is warm, he smells less like sleep than before yet still considerably so, a bit like lavender laundry detergent. He buries his nose into Lucas’ hair, and like that they sway slightly, holding, lovingly.

When Lucas leaves it’s with a lesser sinking feeling in his chest than before. It’s more of a bewildered kind of feeling, a bittersweet blend of certainty fused with uncertainty.

There are a few things that repeat in Lucas’ mind as he goes home, things that have maybe always been there but only become clear in the last fifteen hours or so. The grey of Eliott’s thoughts, his fear that it would make Lucas not want to stay. There’s the spell, Lucas’ spell, how it scorns him. The smell Eliott leaves on his clothes when he goes home, the fire in Lucas’ heart, the feeling of wishing he was able to say more.

**  
  
  
**

*

  
  


It’s a few days later that Lucas hears from Eliott again.

He’s playing one of those stupid imessage games with Basile when Eliott calls asking if he wants to come grocery shopping. _I know it’s not much,_ he says, _but I need groceries and I also really want to see you, so yeah._

Controversially, the grocery store is quite the haven for all things magic. It’s a bit reckless, in hindsight, to render their abilities so blatantly. They don’t care. There is something oddly exhilarating about being here, doing something as mundane as buying pasta and milk with Eliott while also wreaking havoc in the process.

Eliott is the first to do it. They’re in the confectionary aisle when a multipack of kettle chips fall off the shelf and onto the floor. The abruptness of it startles Lucas. “Was that you?” he asks, whipping around to face Eliott who stands slumped over the handles of his shopping cart.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shrugs, nonchalant. Lucas narrows his eyes, Eliott narrows his right back.

It sort of becomes a competition, after that. Lucas knocks over a loaf of bread, Eliott rattles the silverware in the home appliances section, an assortment of cereal boxes domino straight into their cart.

When they laugh it echoes throughout every single aisle in the store; sweet like innocence and bright like the sun. Definitely far too disorderly for the late hour that it is. But that seems okay, in a way, Lucas has always felt a strange sense of untouchability when shopping this late at night — a bit like he’s the only person left during a zombie apocalypse, how there’s a peacefulness that comes along with that. 

Eliott tips his head back when he laughs and really means it, which is something Lucas has come to know recently. Under the glow of the shitty artificial lights of the grocery store his face glistens. Lucas gets a bit lost in the brightness of his eyes and the pink of his cheeks.

A realisation, sharp and sudden and startling flits into place, tugging persistently at his heart.

And it isn't what Lucas expected at all — to be somewhere as mundane as a grocery store at almost midnight and to look at Eliott and to think, _I’m so in love with you._

But it’s also things and realisations like these that Lucas has started to become a bit defenceless to, lately. And with cloying moments like this, where Eliott backs him into the corner of the empty canned soup aisle and kisses him senseless, it’s extremely hard not to let those thoughts in. Thoughts like how Eliott’s aura has been a raging pink since the moment he picked Lucas up outside his apartment, how his mother’s description of that sits heavy in Lucas’ mind, how as a child it was always the aura that fascinated him most — and now still, perhaps even more so, because he’s never seen it quite like this, quite so profusely. And yet here Eliott is, looking at Lucas, kissing Lucas, wanting to be here with Lucas and he’s getting pink everywhere. It spills out of him and makes a mess on the floors, bleeds into Lucas’ hands and under his skin and Lucas thinks about what a nightmare it will be to clean up, how severely pink stains.

_Pink. Artistic and loving. If this is not a person’s usual aura colour, it may have turned pink because they may have recently fallen in love or are feeling love more profoundly at that moment._

Pink will stain his hands and his heart if he isn’t careful. But Eliott kisses him, deep and intoxicating, and Lucas finds that he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care at all — he hates cleaning, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, there is a lot of sadness in this world, there always is, but too much of it recently. pls stay safe. i love u all 💞
> 
> i’m on tumblr [@lumierelovers](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/) if u just need someone. part 3 will be soon hopefully.


	3. sketches, storms, blue calcite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5k of non-directional fluff? yes.
> 
> also posted on [my tumblr](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/post/615041704370864128/theres-magic-in-all-of-this-part-three)

The kind of magic that stems from a deep longing is a priceless kind of magic. The kind of magic that maybe only exists in dreams, the pure, untainted kind of dreams.

Lucas wakes to a soft warmth.

Sunday mornings are often like this: warm, easy, slow-moving. They’ve been together for over a month, now. Lucas’ thoughts get messy sometimes, Eliott’s too. But when time is inconsequential and minutes seem limitless, clouds disperse and dissipate, no turbulence is ever too much to manage. Limbs and hearts tangle in bedsheets, a bit flawed, mostly perfect. Lucas makes them tea. Eliott draws a lot, when inspiration strikes and light slants over Lucas’ face in just the right way. They have nowhere to be and nothing to do. They talk about things that are important and things that aren’t, they kiss, they laugh, they make love; time is slow, skin warm.

Sometimes, Lucas will sit at the piano in the corner of Eliott’s bedroom and let the soft sharpness to the keys and notes lull them into a peaceful state. 

“Don’t stop,” Eliott will mumble from the bed between pieces, his smile soft and eyes bright, sun stretching lazily over his exposed skin. _Comptine d'un Autre été_ spills from the open window. It trickles into the early streets of Paris where anyone walking by will overhear and instantly know that there are two lovers up here, tucked away in this tiny apartment three stories high, loving.

On this particular morning, rain is persistent. Eliott has pencil smudges on his hands and face, and he looks far too alluring in the relaxed light. It makes the blue of his eyes more prominent, the jut of his cheekbones deathly striking. Lucas tries to be as obedient a model he can be — he adjusts the angle of his face when Eliott says so, doesn’t mess with his own hair, tries not to blush too hard under the intensity of Eliott’s stare.

A sudden flicker of light flashes within the room.

“ _Eliott,_ ” Lucas gasps. Eliott looks up from his sketchbook, they stare at one another for a few moments until a muted roar follows seconds later. Lucas sits up onto his knees. The bed had been pushed up against the wall where the window sits long ago. He shuffles over the mattress until he’s able to peer outside. “It’s a _thunderstorm.”_

Grey clouds hang low in the sky, shadowing over the buildings below, suffocating almost. A strange silence falls over the streets, then comes another flash of silvery white and a low murmur of thunder. It echoes. For a brief moment everything stills. Lucas holds his breath and it seems as though even the wind does, too. The downpour thickens.

“ _Lucas,_ come back.” A hand circles around his ankle from behind, tugging him back, _whining._

“I want to watch.” It’s spoken softly, mostly to himself. “Just draw me from here.”

“The light is different,” Eliott complains, soothed by a trail of kisses pressed to the bare skin of Lucas’ shoulder. Lucas sighs, turning around halfway. His nose buries into Eliott’s hair. Another flash of light. Eliott pouts, adorably, _cunningly._ Lucas won’t give in, _he won’t_. Thunder bellows.

“ _Fine,_ ” Eliott sighs, picking his sketchbook back up, “but if the proportions are off it’s entirely your fault.” Lucas grins, pressing a sweet kiss to Eliott’s cheek.

The storm is fascinating. Lucas gets a bit lost in it — in the swirls of grey that cloud the sky, the anticipation of not knowing when the next thunder and lightning will hit. They start off distant, few and far apart, but as time goes by they become more frequent in duration, louder, brighter. Lucas revels under it, eyes wide as he leans over the ledge of the window sill to peer down at the world surrendering itself to the catastrophe below.

“You’re so _squirmy_ ,” Eliott huffs, hands fitting into the curve of Lucas’ hips to turn him back into the correct position. “Just sit still.”

Lucas rolls his eyes but moves willingly, then laughs, light and airy. “What? Am I distracting you?” he teases, bottom lip curled under his teeth.

Eliott only shakes his head, a smile hidden behind the loose strands of hair that fall over his face as he ducks his head over his sketchbook once again. He turns pink, a furious pink.

It’s been weeks since the colour worked its way into both of their lives. Lucas blinks, intrigued like he always is when the familiarity of it slaps him in the face, like he is with most things that concern Eliott.

See, Eliott cares deeply about things that are slight. When days get long and nights are hard, plants wilt and die and somehow, above all, that’s what harrows him most. Lucas tries to be there in every way he can and can’t. He brings leftover pasta, makes tea, puts away dishes when they begin to gather, waters the plants, buys new ones when there’s nothing else that can be done. He buys groceries and he pours more tea and he makes stupid comentary at badly plotted movies when Eliott lies on his chest and doesn’t feel like saying much. He does these things because that’s just what you do, isn’t it? When you love someone, when you care that deeply.

And that’s what this is, undeniably, Lucas knows it is. It’s love.

They haven’t said it yet, is the thing. But Lucas knows it’s there, he sees it. It floods out of them, _thrashes_ , puddles at their feet. _He feels it_.

Eliott’s aura extends in a stubborn sort of way. Loud and bright and intense. Sometimes it’s all colours and sometimes it’s only one, but there’s a frequent pattern, Lucas has come to notice. There are certain colours that glow brighter than others, they travel — creased into the bedsheets, tangled into hair, spread across the span of Lucas’ chest and in between the gaps of his ribcage. Lucas lets it, because it’s Eliott, because he’s weak that way.

And as days shutter by, as full moons draw close, there are less thoughts surrounding hiding and more time is spent just existing in each moment.

It’s like being able to breathe again for the very first time.

“Okay, I’m finished.” Eliott’s voice comes after a long stretched silence, the both of them too engrossed within their respective tasks. Lucas hums, turning on the bed while Eliott flips the sketchbook over for him to take a look. While light flashes simultaneously.

Lucas’ breath gets caught in his throat. “Wow,” he gasps. “Shit, Eliott. It’s amazing.

Eliott only shrugs, cheeks warm. “It’s nothing, really. But thank you.”

“Stop—“ Lucas frowns. Really, he should be saying, _it’s_ _too good_ , that the Lucas Eliott has captured here is nothing like the real Lucas. He’s sketched a Lucas that is unrecognisable, in a sense. This Lucas has a sparkle in his eyes and a smile that seems to come as easy as breathing. This Lucas is beautiful. But maybe that just goes to say something about the way Eliott sees him. The thought causes something strange to twist in Lucas’ stomach. “—it really is beautiful Eliott,” and then, because he’s feeling overwhelmed by it all, “do you really see me like this?”

“What do you mean?” Eliott looks to his sketch, thumb tracing along the edge of the paper, smiling softly. “I just see you as you are, and you’re beautiful.”

Lucas huffs out a light breath, his face warms under the words, the sincerity in Eliott’s eyes. The storm is a distant thing by now. Lucas shuffles closer to him, taking the sketchbook and setting it aside so that he can take Eliott’s hands in his own.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, charcoal is a messy thing, it transfers, skin against skin. Eliott nods. One hand untangles from Lucas’ to gently brush away some of the hair that’s fallen over his forehead, his hand stays there, cradling one side of Lucas’ face. Lucas turns slightly, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“What is it?” Eliott prompts when Lucas doesn’t make any attempt to continue. His heart is beating far too rapidly, is the thing, and Eliott is looking at him with this incredibly soft and kind look in his eyes that makes Lucas want to scream. He squeezes Eliott’s hand, then, with a shaky exhale, he says it.

“I love you.”

For a few moments Eliott just stares at him, blinking, _gaping._ Lucas feels suspended in time, up in the air waiting for someone to cut the ropes and let him fall. He thinks, though, as Eliott finally shakes out of his daze and lunges forwards, his arms wrapping around Lucas’ neck as he whispers, frantically, foreheads pressed together, “I love you too. _God,_ so much, Lucas,” and as they laugh, as bright and easy as a summer breeze, he thinks that maybe falling isn’t as foreboding as he initially thought it would be.

Maybe falling isn’t losing yourself or lacking control or being terrified about what might be around every corner. Maybe falling is just this. Looking at Eliott and knowing, _just knowing_ , wholeheartedly, that despite the hurdles he may face on the way down, there will always be someone right there to catch him in the end.

*

“Are you nervous?”

The bus engine rattles. When it turns Lucas falls into Eliott’s side — not on purpose, not necessarily incidentally, either. The early buds of summer spill onto the street outside, sun reflects off the bus window, the light tips of Eliott’s hair.

“Yeah.” Eliott pulls at the loose threads of his ripped jeans. Lips bitten raw.

“Don’t be,” Lucas says, placing a steady hand over Eliott’s fidgeting one and squeezing firmly.

Eliott huffs. “That’s easy for you to say, my mother adored you before we even met.”

Fingers tangle, a kiss is pressed to knuckles, Lucas thinks about how right Esmée had been back then when she said Eliott and him would get along (how understated that was to an extent, now that they’re here).

“It’ll be okay,” he assures Eliott. “She’ll love you,” then he smiles, nudging his forehead against Eliott’s shoulder, ”just like I do.” He’ll never grow tired of saying it, of the smiles that steal light from the sun when Eliott says it right back.

Of the pink that stains, drastically.

  
  


The lemon smelling hallway smells less of lemons and more like green apples today. Maybe that means something, maybe the cleaners just used a different product. Maybe it means nothing at all.

Maybe Lucas spends too much time looking for meanings in things that are already defined right in front of him.

Eliott’s hand is a solid weight against his as they step into the garden, a bit clammy, comforting mostly. He squeezes once, twice. Lucas knows his mother sees it as soon as she glances up from her book — the way they feel about each other. It’s brighter on Eliott, still. But with Lucas it’s there, it may be slight and faded but it’s there and it’s striking. She smiles knowingly as they approach.

“Hi, maman.”

“Hello, love.” She stands to pull him into a hug, then looking at Eliott she says, while elbowing Lucas quite dramatically in the side, “And who is this handsome young man.”

Lucas huffs lightly. “This is Eliott,” he says, hand on the small of his back, “the one I told you about, remember.” And then, just for good measure, because the day is bright, because there’s something about his mother's aura that is immensely calm right now, because he knows she can see it anyway, he adds, “Eliott, my boyfriend.”

Eliott’s smile is as blinding as the evening sun. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lallemant,” he holds out his hand.

“Oh nonsense,” his mother scoffs, batting the hand away and pulling him into a firm hug. “Call me Marie. It’s lovely to finally meet the boy who has my son smiling the way he does when he comes to see me now.”

“ _Maman,_ ” Lucas groans, cheeks hot.

Eliott giggles, pretty and unfair.

Lucas knows his mother sees the ether that seeps from underneath their skin. Lucas sees it too, sometimes, when he holds his hand up against the white of his bedroom wall and focuses his eyes properly. It’s terrifying, mostly, something he doesn't let himself indulge in for too long. And then there’s Eliott, asking Lucas things like, _what does it look like today,_ and, _what about yours,_ and it makes Lucas feel as though he’s losing his guard of protection, how it fades slowly and gradually; how he lets it. It has everything to do with Eliott. Lucas has never felt this way about anyone before. And there have been others, a handful of people he’s allowed to delve in ankle deep. But none of them are like this, intense and lovely and just _everywhere._ He never has a good enough answer for those kinds of questions. Eliott never pushes it.

His mother doesn’t mention it, either, but she doesn’t have to. Lucas can see it in her eyes anyway; she’s happy for him, _she’s proud_.

“I don’t know if I can take all of the credit for that,” Eliott says, sun caught in the ends of his eyelashes as he squints down at Lucas, “maybe he’s just happy to see his wonderful mother.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. But secretly, as his mother grins and says, “Well isn’t he charming. I think we’ll keep him,” a flame erupts in his chest, warm and solid like a home. And he thinks that the decision to keep Eliott around had been made for him long ago, way before this. Perhaps, in some strange alternate universe, a version of them found each other and decided to keep finding each other, in every universe. Every last one of them.

*

“You’re staring.”

The party is in full swing. Coloured lights dance inordinately over walls and ceilings, the smooth curves of Eliott’s skin, the dull silver of his rings. 

Lucas blinks. “What?”

Yann laughs, the straw of his drink hangs loosely from his mouth as he speaks. “You’ve been eyeing your boy up all evening, why don’t you just go over there?”

“He’s busy,” Lucas sighs, taking a large gulp of his drink. It makes him cringe, the insides of his stomach twist around the harsh liquor. Eliott is at the other end of the room, talking to a group of people Lucas doesn’t know and it’s stupid, really, because Eliott is his Lucas knows this. _He’s_ the one who woke up in Eliott’s bed just this morning and got kissed senseless into the bedsheets, _he’s_ the one who Eliott looked at before they left for the party, eyes dark and devouring as they danced over Lucas’ strategically picked skinny jeans. He has no reason to feel like this, to _sulk_ like this.

Yet, here he is.

Again, Yann laughs. “Are you seriously jealous right now, Lucas?”

“What? _No_ ,” Lucas scoffs, setting his now empty cup on the table beside him and folding his arms.

“There’s no need to be jealous, you know, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. All lovesick and gross.”

“Shut up.”

“What are you going to do?” Yann raises his brows, challenging. “Turn me into a frog?”

Lucas glares at him. “You know I could if I wanted to so watch what you say.”

Calmly, Yann sets his own cup aside. He takes Lucas by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. If Lucas were slightly more inebriated, maybe he would go right over there and demand Eliott’s attention. He isn’t, though, and perhaps that’s his insecurities getting in the way again. Letting go isn’t an overnight job, despite how effortless things seem to be with Eliott, lately.

Light catches Eliott’s face in a lovely sort of way, and Lucas sighs. Yann sighs harder. He squeezes Lucas’ shoulders. “Confidence is sexy, Lucas,” he says, tone assertive. “Now get over there.” 

“I don’t know, Yann—“

“ _Lucas._ ”

And so, with one last glare, Lucas goes. Maybe it’s because Yann is scary when he’s assertive, maybe it’s because Eliott is this magnetic force, pulling and tugging until Lucas is weak with it. There’s no denying it, the desire he pulls from deep within Lucas’ chest, frayed wires and chipped edges and everything, he brings it all up and he takes every last bit, tenderly, wholeheartedly. Like always, like most things concerning Eliott, Lucas sits back and lets it happen. Maybe he wants Eliott to ruin him. Maybe it’s less that he’s being ruined and more that for once someone is seeing him, actually seeing him, and they’re not running.

By now he’s by Eliott’s side, up close he’s captivating. Lucas stares, words catch uselessly in his throat. All he can do is reach out and tug on Eliott’s arm. It’s a bit pathetic. Eliott doesn’t seem to care all that much. He turns at the touch, and when his eyes land on Lucas they glisten. His smile is fainting.

“There you are,” he says, turning away from the small group to wrap his arms around Lucas’ shoulders. “You okay?” he speaks into the hair at the side of Lucas’ head, Lucas’ arms find Eliott’s waist, hugging him close.

“Yeah,” he mumbles into Eliott’s neck. Eliott pulls away slightly. His eyes are curious.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

Lucas shrugs. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he answers flippantly, hands curling into the material of Eliott’s t-shirt. “Much better with you, though.”

“Is that so?” Eliott smirks, his hand running soothingly along Lucas’ back. Lucas nods, humming. A kiss is pressed into his hair, he melts, just a little. “Sorry, I wasn’t avoiding you, I promise. I thought maybe you’d want to spend some time with Yann, you know, since you’ve been staying at mine a lot recently. I know you’ve been missing him.”

And, _oh._

Lucas’ chest does a thing. Flutters, fawns, _flails_. He looks up at Eliott, at his warm smile, with wide eyes, thinks his heart may not last much longer, if he keeps getting these lovely things thrown at him so carelessly. If Eliott keeps caring about him so clearly, so profoundly.

“I mean, he gets on my nerves, mostly,” Lucas laughs lightly, pushing away the overwhelming feeling in his chest. “But yeah, thank you.”

Eliott rests their foreheads together, his hands now cradling Lucas’ face. “That’s okay, my love,” he whispers, a thumb tracing softly along Lucas’ cheek. Lucas preens under it. Can’t do anything but pull Eliott into a lingering kiss, one that transcends, one that devours. One that makes Lucas’ knees feel weak. 

They kiss under the dizzying lights, lost in their own world. There’s a fire, it lives deep in Lucas’ chest, it curves and flickers around his ribcage, it burns. It says, _this is everything you have ever wanted,_ and it _burns._ It leaves a scar, one that won’t fade. Even if this doesn’t last, if he gets hurt, it will still be there, etched right over his heart. Scars are permanent, there to taunt and to remind. Eliott kisses like a tornado — unforgiving to those all around them, _reckless,_ intense, passionate. Lucas’ toes curl, he thinks scars are negligent things, anyway. He plans on keeping Eliott around for as long as that regardless.

“I want to introduce you to some friends,” Eliott says when they pull away, “is that okay?”

Lucas smiles, lost in the feeling of being kissed so deeply, lost in love. “Of course.”

Eliott tugs him back towards the group from before. “Hey guys,” he announces, hand light on Lucas’ back, “I want you all to meet my boyfriend, Lucas—“

 _I love you too much,_ Lucas thinks, then, adamantly, _no_ , _I love you exactly like I should._

*

Midnight blue stains the sheets.

The curtains are drawn open, moonlight spilling over the room. But it’s Eliott, too. His aura is strong tonight, opaque and elongated. A bit like the first time they met, it’s quite dark, a little muddy. Lucas runs a hand through his hair.

“What are you thinking?” he asks Eliott. Their cheeks are squished into adjacent pillows, faces close, parallel.

Eliott’s lips purse. He does this, often — gets in his own head, thoughts twisted and overbearing. Lucas tends to notice more often than not when he withdraws in on himself increasingly throughout the evening, brooding until his lips are bitten raw and there’s a permanent worry mark etched into his forehead.

“Just—“ he sighs, “It’s stupid.”

“It’s _not_.”

Eliott looks at him pointedly. Outside, stars stir and startle in their beds, Lucas’ chest aches. “You don’t know that.”

“I know _you_. I know you worry about things just like I do,” Lucas says quietly, the back of his fingers stroking over Eliott’s cheek. “Nothing is ever stupid.”

It takes a few moments for Eliott to speak again. When he does it’s vulnerable in a way that sends shivers down Lucas’ spine. He says, softly, “Just, things are so good. And I’m worried that it’s all going so fast, and that I’ll fuck everything up. I do that a lot. And you’re like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I don’t want to lose that, _you_.”

There’s a small pause. Lucas stays silent. “And then I think about us being together for the rest of our lives,” Eliott continues, “how badly I want that. How I probably shouldn’t, because maybe it’s too soon.” He huffs, lightly. “I’m probably scaring the hell out of you with all of this.”

“Eliott.”

See, Lucas daydreams about it. Sometimes, a lot. The idea of this being forever. Of growing old, of a home that people come to find peace, of a life that’s long and boring but full of love, of kids, maybe, a handful of them that would stir and challenge and strengthen what they have, of doing all of that with someone, of doing it with Eliott. And yeah, perhaps it’s too soon, to think like this about Eliott when they’ve only really been together for a couple of months. But the thing is, it feels right with Eliott. They shouldn’t think this way, but here they both are, doing exactly that. Maybe wanting to keep the little bursts of happiness that spill into your life around forever isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it’s smart. Maybe it’s just what you do when you love someone this much.

“First of all,” Lucas whispers, “I love you.” Eliott smiles, soft and pretty. Lucas continues, thumb tracing over the smooth skin of Eliott’s cheek, blue seems to weaken, just a little. “Secondly, don’t you remember when you told me that the future was a long way away?”

“And you said that the past, present and future all exist at once. Ridiculous.”

“Yeah well, I wanted to get kissed. That’s not the point,” Lucas teases. Eliott lets out a small laugh. “The point is that we shouldn’t worry about what might happen in the future, because who knows, right? All we know for sure is that things are good right now. Right now, this minute, that’s all we need to worry about.”

The light of the stars doesn’t quite reach them here, but Lucas sees them when he looks over Eliott’s shoulder and out of the open window. Eliott’s eyes are coruscating, green in daylight and grey beneath shadows, but they’re phosphorescent nonetheless. 

He’s so beautiful sometimes Lucas feels like he can’t breathe.

“Okay, then, right now, I want to kiss you,” Eliott decides softly, hands fitting perfectly into the curves of Lucas’ hips.

“We can do that,” Lucas breathes, breathlessness caught by the pull and tug of Eliott’s lips crashing like a tide against his.

*

Blue calcite calms. It’s blue like the sky in summer, blue like Eliott’s eyes sometimes get. Blue calcite protects. Blue calcite dreams and it enhances and it sits on the nightstand right by Eliott’s bed.

Lucas asks about it, one day while they're eating breakfast, what it means.

Eliott smiles, the morning light is soft over his features as he says, “It’s supposed to be good for anxiety and insomnia,” then softer, locking their ankles together under the kitchen table, ”It protects auras, and I know you like looking at mine. I always catch you staring,” he says, a bit teasing, mostly kind, ”I want to make sure it’s always there for you to see.”

And it’s so beautifully choking that Lucas doesn’t know how to respond. Eliott is lovely, is the thing. He says things that take Lucas by the heart and squeeze until he’s breathless with it. Things that sink under his skin and warm him from the inside out. Things that make him less afraid to be himself.

It comes in phases, this wave of warmth that Eliott brings. Lucas settles into it like you would in your garden on a warm summer day. It’s something he’s been trying out lately, letting go a bit more. He likes how it feels, how freeing it is to not have to worry about what people might see in him.

Calcite fluoresces pink under long waves of ultraviolet light. Pink like peonies, like cotton candy, like the natural phenomena of a salt lake. Pink like the feeling of looking at the person you love most in the world and the art of it spilling out of you for everyone to see.

Eliott has stopped asking about Lucas’ aura by now, too much time gone by without an actual answer.

He’s saying something now, Lucas catches bits and pieces but his mind is somewhere else entirely. ”—I think I might have over cooked these eggs, actually—“ he rambles, socked feet knocking against Lucas’. “Maybe I should have—“

“It’s pink,” Lucas blurts out, suddenly.

Eliott freezes, mug suspended midway between the table and his face. He looks at Lucas in confusion.

“My aura,” Lucas explains, “It’s pink, mostly. Green, sometimes, too.”

“Oh,” Eliott breathes, the mug is placed gently down onto the table. “You don’t really talk about it.”

Lucas shrugs, their legs swing together under the table. “It used to terrify me, actually. The thought of people being able to look at me and see exactly what I’m feeling.”

Eliott reaches across the table, catches Lucas’ hand in his own. “And now?” he asks, thumb tracing over skin.

Last night was one of the strongest full moons of all — _a super full moon_. Lucas spent it not alone in his apartment surrounded by candles and regret, but here, with Eliott, thinking of nothing but the warmth this boy brings into his life and how wonderful it is to feel loved.

“Now there’s you.”

*

Lucas wears them like a crown now.

Eliott doesn’t ask about it often but when Lucas smiles the way he does and light catches onto his face in the most perfect way, he will. Sometimes just to know, other times so he can have something beautiful to paint from memory.

The sun washes thickly over Lucas’ skin as he stands outside the art building on campus. The brightness of it frightens clouds from the sky, leaves a blue that delights. Campus smells a lot like freshly cut grass and summer, refreshing.

Eliott comes into view along with a sudden flood of artsy students who flock out of the main doors all at once. He glows under the daylight, stands out within the crowd of too many like a magnetic pulsar between a thousand other stars. Lucas waves to catch his attention, obnoxious and giddy. He’s less startled and more pleased to find that it comes instantly. And then Eliott is there, right in front of him with this wide grin on his face that transcends even the sun.

“Hi,” Eliott says excitedly, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

Lucas chuckles softly, now noticing the smudges of colour over his face and along his arms. He traces the stains lightly with his finger, a mint green under his bottom lip. “What on earth were you doing in there for all of this to happen?”

“Art gets messy,” Eliott shrugs, taking Lucas’ hand from his face and pressing a kiss to his knuckles, smiling into the skin there.

Lucas hums. “I bet.” Eliott’s eyes are green. Gold and green, warm like a soft sunset. One that you’d watch from a pretty hilltop, grass between your toes, breeze light on your skin. His smile would kill Lucas if he let it. “Anything new you can show me?”

He gets a kiss on the nose, it scrunches involuntarily in response. Foreheads press together, Lucas goes a bit squinty eyed when he tries to look at Eliott from up this close.

“Of course. I can show you when we get home.”

 _Home_. Because that’s a thing now, their apartment, the little place in the uncertain folds of paris on the third floor of a building built into an old bookstore. It’s all they can afford. It’s all they really need.

“I’d like that,” Lucas says, smiling when Eliott kisses him softly, tenderly, _lovingly._ He melts under Eliott’s lips. “I’d like that very much.”

Lucas used to have this reoccurring dream. It started off with a boy, he had all of these powers, wonderful mysterious powers that nobody really understood. He had these powers but he also had nowhere to put them. But then there was this other boy who would come along and tip everything onto its axis. He would create chaos, make a mess everywhere. Colour would spill behind Lucas’ closed eyelids, too much for him to clean up all on his own.

It used to terrify him.

But now he’s here, and there is Eliott, smiling at Lucas like he’s the entire world and he’s purple, and Lucas is green, and they’re pink, and orange and blue and they’re _happy_.

Maybe dreams are prophetic. Maybe magic exists in most things, all things that we love, not just our distant fantasies. Maybe the colours we emit are just brief tales of the deeper feelings we hold inside.

And so what if they stain like paint does on Eliott’s skin. They’re beautiful that way.

He wears them like a crown, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u all enjoyed this ❣️ a bit sad that it’s done but at least i was able to actually finish something for once!!
> 
> i’m on tumblr [@lumierelovers](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/) i love u all lots and lots!!


End file.
